


Oh

by sockslost



Category: Rizzoli & Isles
Genre: Complete, F/F, Fluff without Plot, One Shot, Rizzles, can i interest you in some fluff in these trying times?, soft, the same story I've written 700 hundred times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29837982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockslost/pseuds/sockslost
Summary: It happens. Somehow both gradually and all at once. Jane feels something inside of her shift so irrevocably the only thing she can think is oh.
Relationships: Maura Isles/Jane Rizzoli
Comments: 25
Kudos: 189





	Oh

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own the characters not making money. ETC. ETC.

It happens.

Somehow both gradually and all at once. Like it’s been building for years, but she’s only just realized.

They’re standing in Maura’s kitchen, which is more like _their_ kitchen. But that’s not something Jane wants to think about now or ever. Because then she would have to name this. She would have to admit to it. Whatever _it_ is. Because _this_ was always only supposed to be temporary. Her living with Maura. It was after that terrible year in DC. (And what a _mistake_ that was.) It was only supposed to be until she found something suitable. Except, after a while, she just stopped looking for apartments, and kept _staying._ And now, her baseball memorabilia is hanging on the walls in the living room, and _her_ room is actually _hers_ and not only hers because she’s the one who stays over the most.

But now, today, they are in the kitchen. A playlist full of both of their favorite music plays softly through the hidden speakers in the room. Maura is barefoot, and something about the deep red color of her toenails and the way her hips sway ever so slightly to the beat of the music has Jane transfixed. Maura is fresh faced, in yoga pants and an off-the-shoulder sweater with her hair pulled back messily in a clip - several pieces fall around her shoulders and around her face. A streak of flour dusts her cheek as she swipes an errant strand behind her ear.

It’s heartachingly endearing.

It’s a moment they have shared _at least_ hundreds if not thousands of times.

When Maura looks up suddenly, hazel eyes dancing in the lights of the kitchen, her one cheek powdered white, the other a pleasant rosy hue, and the ghost of laughter still clinging to her lips – Jane feels something inside of her shift so irrevocably the only thing she can think is _oh._

_Oh._

Like _oh my god._

_Oh._

Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

_Oh._

Like how can she call herself a detective if she never saw this coming?

Suddenly, Jane can’t breathe and everything is surround sound and Maura is looking at her like she’s lost her marbles and like _maybe_ she needs to run to the closet and get her emergency first aid kit.

Jane coughs into her shoulder and gives Maura a weak smile. “I’m fine. Just got some...flour...in my mouth.”

Maura still looks concerned. “If you’re sure?”

“Mhhmhmmm.”

And they continue working out the pizza dough.

The song switches and Maura grins as she begins to mumble-sing off beat and out of tune.

Jane is going to blame it on her parents. That’s always what people do anyway, right?

Her parents’ marriage was never _soft._ She was sure they had their moments, and maybe she could remember them if she tried hard enough, but the first thing she always remembered was how loud they were. The arguments that started as heated whispers but quickly devolved into yelling matches. Her mother asking, then yelling at her father to do a task; her father yelling at her mother to stop the nagging. Eye rolling and grunts and dish towels waving as a flag of surrender as they fell to the sink, the counter, the table.

She tries not to think of her father too much nowadays. It’s hard to reconcile who he was with who he became. And the more she thinks about him, the more she remembers the not-as-nice memories. Like the drunken stumbles through the house, or the way when he got his keys taken at the bar, he would bang on the door in the dead of night to be let in. And the wine rants that became louder and more aggressive the more glasses he consumed. Just as that low-lying, lingering anger is about to rise in her chest, Maura’s voice cuts through the memories.

“I think we’re ready for the sauce.”

“Great!”

Maura looks at her full of skepticism and care. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m great.” She says lying through her teeth. What is she supposed to do with this little (not little at _all_ ) revelation of hers? She may want to blame her parents, but really, this is on her shoulders and hers alone.

It’s not like she’s ever really tried to figure out the whole _love_ thing. It’s not like she’s ever really _cared._ The only time she got close was with Casey and _that_ never felt anything like _this._ She never wanted to just _be_ with him. But Maura... _Being_ with Maura was her favorite thing. And it might also be her favorite thing - her _favorite-ist_ thing - when Maura falls asleep on her shoulder during a movie, or when they somehow end up cuddled together in the same bed. Maura was the one thing she missed the most when she was in DC. And Maura is who she always wants to come home to and has always been the one place she can find comfort and care and safety no matter what.

And _maybe_ that's just what love _is_.

She feels like she’s trying to put together a complex murder board and there are so many lines that have nowhere to go and it’s just a spiderwebbed disaster. Though she knows, she probably shouldn’t be trying to solve this problem (is it even a problem?) over dinner. But, much like the rest of her life, here she is. Doing it anyway.

Maura looks up at her then - laugh lines around her eyes, lips just barely upturned at the corners – Jane has such an urgent desire to kiss her she drops her spoon and marinara splatters across the table.

Maura jumps.

She jumps.

There is silence for a heart stopping moment.

And then laughter.

Maura is the first to break. The sound so _bright_ and so _happy_ and so _Maura,_ Jane can’t help the way her heart soars, can’t help but join in. Soon they have tears streaming down their faces as they clutch their stomachs. Objectively, it’s probably not _that_ funny. But don’t tell them that.

Maura looks up again, all dimples and brightness and everything good, “what is going on with you?” She asks in such a polite way that it takes the sting from her words.

“I just…” And here, Jane knows, the paths diverge. She can stay the course and make up an excuse. “I just realized something is all.”

“What?”

Or she can flip the script.

Because maybe, maybe this is love too. Maybe it’s laughing and making a mess in the kitchen. Maybe it’s soft music and off beat dancing. Maybe it’s living with your best friend and never wanting to leave so you just don’t. Maybe it really can be soft and slow and _real._ And maybe she really is just an idiot, because _really_.

There is sauce on the bottom of Maura’s chin. Jane can’t focus on anything else. She steps closer and closer until there is not an inch of space between them. Maura could move if she wanted to. One step backwards and this is all over. But she doesn’t.

She leans.

And so does Jane.

Jane’s thumb swipes at the sauce with her finger. She blinks and stares into incredible hazel eyes – today they are more green and gold than brown. Maura’s hips lean into hers as perfect white teeth bite into a very, _very_ kissable bottom lip. She is standing so close Jane can practically count the freckles across the bridge of Maura’s nose. Her thumb brushes against the flour still across Maura’s cheek. Her heart is tripping on beats, and she half expects someone to barge into the house because that would be just her luck, and then Maura presses her body flush against her and finally, _finally_ Jane closes the space between them.

And _oh._


End file.
